Ink
by reine Seele
Summary: Malik needs new inks. Altair obliges. Fluff one-shot. Altair/Malik


**A/N:** Forgot I had this. Just another fluff piece, because they're sweet. I like writing them as already established lovers too, though one day I'll probably write an epic story where they go through epic trials and have an epic relationship. One day. Until then, fluff.

* * *

**Ink**

"You are _always_ drawing something," Altaïr commented as he slouched against the counter next to Malik. He watched his friend sketch a simple outline of Jerusalem's boundaries and carefully label the spots where the entrances to the city were located. It was the second map of the day and Altaïr felt neglected. Not that he would dare admit such a thing, not to Malik. After all, the Dai's duties were many, and Malik had but one arm and almost no good humor to speak of. At least, that was Altaïr's general opinion.

"I'm _bored_," Altaïr complained, louder this time, hoping to inspire a reaction. He reached for the inkpot Malik was using, to take it away, and found himself dodging the sharpened end of a quill as the Dai stabbed at his fingers.

"If you're bored," Malik said, setting the inkpot on his right side, out of Altaïr's greedy reach, "then I suggest you stop pestering me and make yourself useful; here, go buy me some colored ink. I think I'm going to section the districts of the city."

"I don't know what I'd do without you here to stimulate my mind," Altaïr said dryly, rolling his eyes but pushing off the counter to go do as he was requested.

"You'd rot from laziness," Malik replied. "But I'd expect no less from one such as you. You always preferred the easy way out."

"Your words are like daggers," Altaïr said, leaving the room with a mock bow. Contrary to what Malik said through his playful insults, Altaïr found any task, however menial, preferable to sitting about doing _nothing_.

The marketplace seemed more crowded than usual, but he patiently fought his way through the massive throng of people, going from stall to stall, inquiring about colored ink. He found a small pot of blue ink, made from pure indigo, but he almost refused to buy it. The woman selling the pot asked for five gold pieces and three silver. Altaïr haggled as best he could and even beset the old hag with an evil glare, but she glared right back, not intimidated at all. Altaïr eventually gave up and bought the ink at the requested price.

He bought red and brown from a young man in the courtyard closest to the Temple, and then bought two extra pots of black. Malik was _always_ writing or drawing. He'd run out of black ink very quickly if he wasn't careful enough to keep track of how much he used daily. Satisfied that the red, blue, and brown constituted as enough "color" for Malik's tastes, Altaïr headed back toward the Bureau.

"Sir!" he heard a young woman call out, and he ignored her, slipping through two burly looking men.

"_Sir!_"

Altaïr made the mistake of turning his head making eye contact with the young woman closing up her stall. She tilted her head to the side and smiled, beckoning him over with a crooked finger.

"I have something you might like to see!" she called out, and her tone was full of such promise and mystery that Altaïr couldn't resist just taking a _look_. The woman smiled as he drew near and removed a small inkwell from her sleeve and cupped it between delicate hands.

"I noticed you buying colored ink," she said, casting her eyes down as if ashamed to admit she had been watching him. "Are you an artist?"

Altaïr drew himself up and lied as firmly and resolutely as possible, "No. I am buying the inks for my wife."

A shadow crossed the woman's face, and she pouted indecently, as if upset at the loss of the handsome man before her. However, she recovered her countenance and smiled sweetly, grabbing one of Altaïr's hands and setting the pot in his palm.

"For your wife, then," she said. "I promise it's like nothing you've ever seen before."

Altaïr doubted it, but he thought Malik would perhaps be interested. He paid for his purchase, spending more than he counted on, and all but fled back to the Bureau, eager to give Malik the inks. With the pots carefully packaged and hidden in his robes, Altaïr scaled down the wall of the Bureau and slipped back into the room he had left Malik in. True to form, the Dai remained hunched over the counter, putting the finishing touches on his notes for the day. Altaïr removed the pots from his robes and lined them up in a row.

"There," Altaïr said triumphantly, as if he had just completed his first Trial all over again. Malik didn't say a word, but uncorked the small pots and dipped a fresh quill in one and began to test it out. A vivid blue dripped across the new scroll of paper, and Malik's eyes widened.

"This color is very rich," he commented. "It must have cost you a great deal…"

"It was nothing," Altaïr shrugged. He secretly treasured the sound of wonderment in Mali's voice, and immediately decided that the gold he spent was well worth it. Malik eagerly uncapped the red and brown and tested the out as well, voicing his approval. Altaïr waited with baited breath as Malik struggled to undo the top of mystery pot. Altaïr would have helped, but Malik hated being treated as if he were incapable of completing such a simple task and eventually forced the top off by himself.

"What's this one?" the older man asked, wiping his quill clean on his robes and dipping the nib into the pot. He drew it out again and swept his hand across the blank page, and Altaïr 'hmph'ed in surprise. A beautiful gold color stood out among the now dull blue and red, shining, it seemed, as if gold flecks were mixed with the pigments. Malik smiled appreciatively.

"Do you like them?" Altaïr asked coyly, sidling up close to Malik. His lover didn't answer straight away, and instead dipped his quill into the red ink and started sketching the poor district of Jerusalem, mapping out the miniature forms of the rooftops and towers, marking important areas and checking well known hiding spots.

"I think," Malik murmured after holding Altaïr in suspense for a few minutes, "these will do perfectly. Well done, Master Assassin. Now sit down and hold still."

Altaïr obediently walked from the room and returned with an empty wooden crate, which he moved to the front of the counter. He sat down heavily and rested his elbows on his knees.

"What are you planning to do to me, O Master of Quills and Ink?" Altaïr asked in a stage whisper, leaning forward.

"I'm going to test my new inks out," Malik said, unrolling a fresh scroll and weighing the ends down with the ink pots.

"Haven't you already deemed them worthy enough to use?"

"This will be a different sort of test. Now hold still."

Altaïr did as he was told out of curiosity. He kept so still he soon felt his entire body would turn to stone at any moment. Malik seemed unaware of his lover's discomfort and remained bent over his paper, sweeping his hand in short arcs back and forth, and looking up every so often with such an intense gaze that Altaïr soon began to sweat from desire.

"Can I see yet?" he asked after fifteen minutes of torturous stillness. Malik told him to shut his mouth and remove his hood. Altaïr did so with gusto, relishing the chance to stretch his arms. Malik sketched faster after the removal of Altaïr's hood, and was finished after another intense ten minutes.

"There," he said triumphantly, straightening and setting his quill to the side, "finished."

Altaïr was on his feet in an instant, nimbly vaulting over the counter and making Malik roll his eyes again. He stared down at the paper, and the near perfect likeness of his own face gazed back at him. Fresh colors glistened as the ink had yet to dry, and Altaïr struggled not to touch the paper. Smooth brown lines shaped his face and his lips were a pleasant mixture of brown and red. Malik used black to outline his nose and then both black and brown for his hair. The most astounding piece of the sketch were the eyes, outlined in black, filled in with the strange gold color, and set in a frightening gaze that was neither angry nor glad, but caught somewhere in between.

Malik held his breath as he watched Altaïr study the drawing, but smiled as the younger man turned to him with a smirk on his face.

"This is not the first time you've sketched my likeness," Altaïr said softly, leaning in close.

"Narcissistic as ever, I see," Malik chuckled. "You think I have nothing better to do with my time then sit around, wistfully drawing your figure over and over, longing for your return? Altaïr, my brother, you assume too much."

"I know you better than you think, A-Sayf," Altaïr grinned, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Unfortunately," the Dai conceded, and brought out a small, thin book, bound in leather with loose sheaves of paper sticking out at odd angles. He untied a strip of leather which held the book shut and handed it to Altaïr, who turned the pages as slowly and reverently as one might shift through the Holy Scripts.

"When did you find time for these?" Altaïr asked, holding up one to inspect it further. Much of the book's pages were filled, some with writing, more with drawings. Altaïr found many of himself, his face, his eyes, just his lips and sometimes his half nude form as he lay sleeping. He ran his fingers over the faded brown ink and continued to turn the pages, looking for more. True to his word, Malik had not restricted himself to the satisfying the absent ego of his lover, and Altaïr exclaimed over the familiar sights of Masyaf, of people from their city that he knew, and even some very old sketches of Kadar and Adha.

"How long have you had this?" he asked, closing the cover and looking up at Malik with a burning curiosity in his golden eyes. Malik shrugged.

"Since we were boys," he said. "I always found it soothing to sit beneath the fig trees and let my hand wander across the page. I didn't have much time for it after we completed our trials… However, I now find myself with a little more time than I know what to do with."

"Your talent shows," Altaïr said, impressed. "Who'd have thought? The bitter old Dai of Jerusalem has some sentimental inclinations after all."

Malik scoffed and ripped the book from Altaïr's hands.

"Dai, yes," he snapped, "old, not quite, but if I am bitter, Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad, it is only due to _your_ presence causing me pain I do not deserve."

"I was merely joking," Altaïr said gently, seeing that he had gone too far with his jests. When Malik just glared back at him, Altaïr sighed and slipped his arms around Malik's waist, dragging him close and resting his head against his lover's back. Malik stiffened and tried to pull away, but Altaïr's tight hold couldn't be broken. He ended up gripping Altaïr's wrist tightly, half tempted to throw him off.

"I hate your jokes," Malik mumbled.

"You love me," Altaïr insisted, tilting his head up to lightly blow on the back of Malik's neck. The Dai shuddered and held onto Altaïr's wrist, squeezing lightly. He felt Altaïr blowing on the back of his neck again, and then felt hot lips press against his skin.

"Altaïr," Malik said, tightening his grip on the other man's wrist, "if you think that you can insult me, and then placate me so easily, you can just—"

"I can just what?" came an infuriatingly gleeful response.

"Go away," Malik snapped, forcing Altaïr's arm away from his waist.

A sharp bite to the side of his neck made Malik gasp and then Altaïr's hands dipped lower, searching and unrelenting. Though he did his best to protest, Malik found Altaïr ridiculously difficult to resist, and the two invariably retreated to an area of the Bureau far more private. Their inks and insults were soon forgotten amid the sweaty heat of their love-making, drowned out by their moans and hisses of pleasure, and lost among their whispered words of passion.

When Malik woke the next morning, he found Altaïr's place beside him cold to the touch, completely devoid of human heat. Malik frowned and placed his hand on the pillow, sunken in from the indent of his lover's head. He wished Altaïr would find time to stay longer, at least through the mornings.

"Arrogant…insufferable…," Malik muttered as he made a fist and punched the pillow. The sound of crinkling paper stopped him from repeating the action and he sat up, staring at the pillow with interest. Beneath, he found a single sheet of paper, borrowed, he noticed, from his own supply he kept beneath the counter. Covering the page was an ink drawing, simple black ink and rough, amateur lines. The talent was there, clearly begging for honing, but Malik was impressed. And touched, for it was clear that Altaïr had penned it only recently, within the past couple hours, at least.

The sketch depicted himself, on his stomach, with his face half hidden by his arm. His eyes peered over his bicep sleepily, tired and heavy, darkly outlined and intense. Malik was able to overlook anatomical errors and spattered ink. Unfolding the page further, he discovered a small note from his lover, and scoffed as he read it:

_Malik, I do not know how you manage to waste so much of your time drawing. It is intensely boring and such a lengthy process I very nearly gave up. However, I know that whatever you may accomplish with one arm, I can achieve twice as fast with two. Therefore, I leave you this sketch to do with as you will. Safety and peace unto you, my brother, my friend, and my love._

Malik folded the picture and slipped it beneath the pillow where he had found it, and rose to dress himself. Yes, Altaïr's teasing angered him. Yes, the man was worse than the plague. Yes, he was the cause for much pain in Malik's life…and yes…yes, Malik loved him.


End file.
